


To The Far Horizon

by TheosOxonian



Series: The Wings of the Morning [3]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-09
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2018-01-08 03:32:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1127847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheosOxonian/pseuds/TheosOxonian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A holiday allows Robbie a little time to reflect</p><p>  <i>"Who’d smiled at him with open, calm eyes and cuddled up to him, all warmth and welcome.  Who’d said nothing, demanded nothing and in a way that broke his heart, expected nothing."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	To The Far Horizon

**Author's Note:**

> A few comments in recent months have suggested there could be a third part to this series and so, only 12 months or so after the last part was posted, I give you the conclusion. Hopefully it doesn't disappoint!
> 
> The series title is taken from Psalm 139: 8-10.
> 
> " _If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there._  
>  _If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea;_  
>  _Even there shall they hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me."_

Worst storm in twenty years they’re saying on the telly. The pictures make him glad they’re not in Oxford. Storm surges up the Thames and every bit of low lying land around the city underwater. Had they been in the county there’s no doubt they’d have been drafted back to duty. But 300 miles north and five hours away they’re safe from even the long armed reach of Chief Superintendents. 

Good thing really. They need a break and they’re both long past the stage of thinking industrial scale wellies and a torch are in any way heroic. Especially when it involves wading around the canal towpaths rescuing folk who somehow didn’t think the weather forecast would apply to them. Best place for them both, away from it all. Safe and sound and serene together.

Though even here on the relatively calm North-East coast the elements are hard at work; breeze and bluster all through the day. Though dry enough to allow a walk along the headland and up to Dunstanburgh, the wind stinging their cheeks to colour and their eyes to a watery shine.

Bracing James had called it, with a wry grin and a tongue touched to chapped lips, cheeks and eyes glowing beneath a grey woolly hat. Nithered his dad would have said. So many holidays spent up here as a kid. Him and his brother running naked around the empty beaches; castles and crabs and cheese sarnies. Too young to care for shame or modesty. And always warm too, back then in the eternal summer of youth; cornfields and cricket and the curlew on the wing.

He and Val had brought the kids up here one year. The holiday had been right enough, but nothing that warranted the drive Val had said. They’d gone to Norfolk the next year. Dorset the year after that. Holiday snapshots of piers and ice creams and the occasional umbrella and cagoule. The buckets and spades looking smaller as the kids and cagoules got bigger. 

But James is cheerful here, among the cluster of cottages and empty holiday homes, the fish smoker’s and the pub. Happy roaming the empty, rugged landscape; content to gaze out at the endless, boundless sea. Robbie’s not often given to fancy but the lad’s eyes seem brighter here. He talks of Aidan and Lindisfarne, the Council of Whitby and reivers. Of cattle raids and Viking raids and the coming of the Normans. The harrying of the North, the Antonine Wall, Hadrian’s wall. History spilling out of him as that massive brain whirs away, empires rising and dying in the landscape as he explains the castles and the houses and even the bloody bumps in fields. 

Robbie doesn’t mind, not really, not when he’s glowing and happy. Happier than he’s been in months. No longer a dog-tired sergeant ploughing his way through another Oxford winter, but more the cheeky know-it-all that first caught his heart. His self confidence is back as well. Hadn’t really noticed it’s absence until the second day up here when James had wrestled him into the bedroom and taken him apart piece by piece, stripped him down until he’d known nothing but strong hands and intense eyes, drinking their fill as he’d moved within him. Been a long time since they’d done that. He’d felt it the next day of course, and though he’d never admit it he loves that just as much. Loves remembering those tender, deep eyes and the shivery way his body reacts whenever James’ looks to him and him alone. And though he’s never admitted it, the lad knows. Course he does. Knows that if he turns those beautiful brown eyes on him and smiles just so that he’s putty in his hands. He’s already conceded a trip to Durham Cathedral on the way back home. 

Home. This used to be home. Still is in some ways. Feels more comfortable here than he’d expected. So many traces of his life are still up here. His mam and dad lie in the West Road cemetery back down in Newcastle. Uncle Harry and Aunt Joan too. The cousins are mostly still scattered around. Never even thought to look them up. Built a life in Oxford. Buried a wife in Oxford. Thought he’d buried his life for a while too. ‘Till a leggy blonde with a brain the size of a small planet landed beside him and latched on tight. Taught him over again that home isn’t a place it’s a person. And he’s dammed if he’s letting this one go anytime soon. Never, if he has any say in the matter. 

The weather had worsened with the evening, squally showers beating an irregular tattoo against the windows, the wind slamming the sea against the harbour wall; odd, booming echoes of sound vibrating up the narrow slipway and around the cottage. It’s gusting down the chimney too, shifting coals in the fireplace, spitting embers onto the hearth. But here inside, curtains drawn against the gathered dark, a proper fire in the grate and the lights down low its as cosy as can be. James is curled up in an arm chair, his head buried in some suitably high-brow tome, firelight flaming his hair to golden corn. He’s given up asking what the books are about, just waits to be told the interesting snippets, feigns interest when there’s none to be found and finds his own quiet joy in James’ endless curiosity and his boyish enthusiasm when he learns something new. He knows the taste of knowledge on his lips; always affectionate when he’s discovered a new connection, made more sense of his world. Almost as though understanding itself lights him right up. Makes him wonder how on earth he ever thought the seminary was the place for him. Special his James is. Far too special to be hidden away inside the walls of a church, bound up, closed and shuttered by a priestly collar. 

He’d taken his contacts out after tea and unearthed his glasses from the bedroom. Giving his eyes a rest while he can, when it’s just the two of them, and there’s never the risk of having to chase a suspect or getting punched in the face. Looks a little older with them on, more like the university professor he could so easily have been. All corduroy trousers and v-necked jumpers, articles and tutorials and tutting at the bad grammar of his students. They might still have met, but James would have been just another toff academic and he’d have been nothing more than a policeman with a funny accent. One in an ivory tower, one in his empty house; both shuttered up against the world, each forgotten as quickly as they came. 

Instead they’re together and they’re here. North. Not quite the county of his birth, but near enough. Near enough that he can still see the small boys on the beach, can remember the heady terror of his first kiss and the clamour and clatter of the shipyards. It’s a different landscape through James’ eyes. No longer just the prosaic places of his childhood, but a land of hills and harbours tangled together across the centuries. He’s different now as well. Not the man who had a wife and kids, and so many years from being just a son and a brother. He’s tangled like the hills. Traces of the places he’s been, the people he’s seen. The places and people he’s lived and loved. 

Love. There’s a ring hidden in his spare pair of shoes in the wardrobe. Felt silly bringing it. Felt even sillier buying it. Doesn’t really know how this is supposed to work. Back in the day men didn’t wear rings, but some of the younger coppers around the station wear one. Can’t help but feel that James would want one. Something to let the world know he’s claimed and loved. A bit like the crucifix he keeps in a box in his sock drawer. He’s never worn it in the time they’ve been together and likely as not he hasn’t worn it since the seminary. Not since those idiots judged him and found him wanting. 

With him James will want for nothing. And daft as he felt buying a ring for his boyfriend, stuttering out an explanation to a patient sales assistant, he’d have felt even dafter kneeling before James with empty hands. Bought it the day after the legislation went through parliament. After an evening of a quietly joyful James who’d finally watched an entire news item on the topic. Who’d closed his eyes and bowed his head. Who’d later smiled at him with open, calm eyes and cuddled up to him, all warmth and welcome. Who’d said nothing, demanded nothing and in a way that broke his heart, expected nothing. 

James opens the curtains as they’re getting ready for bed, turns off the light and stares out into the dark. He’s done it every night they’ve been here. Captivated by the play of light on the water, the clear white of moonlight and the orange glow from the streets and few houses. The dark, inky ebb and swell of the sea and the dancing fret whipped up by the wind. He finds nothing too special in it himself, but then he suspects there weren’t too many seaside holidays in James’ childhood. Maybe they should come back in summer. Bring Lynn and her crowd. Buy some buckets and spades and go paddling. Knowing James he’d try and make a scale model of Bambrough or Buckingham Palace. And he’d happily sit back and watch him. Maybe help a bit. Go buy some of those little flags for the top. Pick up some shells for doors and windows. Eat lollies for the drawbridge planks. That was always Mark’s excuse for wanting another Twister. 

They wont have kids together, the two of them. Some men do, but that boat’s long sailed for both of them. But there’s grandkids in their life and joy enough in the future. He’s not as young as last time, but he knows that doesn’t matter to James. There’s world enough and time, and he’ll give all he has left to his bonny, bright boy. 

The shoes are staring up at him as he hangs up his trousers. The box is light in his hands, oddly light for such a heavy moment. He’s no less nervous this time and its faintly ridiculous that they’re in t-shirts and boxers. He doesn’t remember the words he uses, though James tells him later on, all bashful blushes and a fierce grip on his hand. All he remembers is the feel of the rug beneath his knee and the strong arms that hauled him to his feet. The cool of the ring against his neck and the warmth of James’ lips. The shine of moonlight in his eyes and the silver slide of a single tear. They linger a while before the window, James’ arms holding him tight as they watch the clouds scudding across the waxing moon and the intermittent lights of the trawlers and cargo ships. And all the while, away in the distance is the far, endless horizon.


End file.
